Warm Enough
by butt0n0nt0p
Summary: When Sherlock is cold, John warms him up. Sherlock is confused when his body is heated in ways it has never been before. Will John be able to help this time? OK so this started off as PWP, but somehow a plot crept in. As usual. Anyway, enjoy!
1. Chapter One

_**Hello chaps, finally got round to writing again, although rather than finishing off my old works I wrote this one instead after getting heavily into the Sherlock fandom. You may have noticed that I have quite a few not-recently-updated WIPs, which may appear abandoned but I just haven't had any inspiration for them for a while. Anyway, don't let that put you off as this fic is completely finished and so I will not be even nearly abandoning it any time soon **_

_**This started off as a PWP but the smut doesn't actually come until the 5**__**th**__** chapter or so. I don't know how that happened. I guess the first two chapters could be labelled plot, but 'sexually charged tension building' is probably a more applicable term. Yay.**_

_**Anyway, enjoy!**_

**Chapter warnings: Non-graphic undressing and nudity.**

Chapter One

Sherlock was unresponsive as, shoulder protesting, I finally deposited him in the armchair, trying not to think about the mud stains I would inevitable have to clean later.

"Do you need any help, dear?" Mrs Hudson chimed from the doorway, looking rather concerned at the lump of mud that was barely recognisable as Sherlock Holmes.

"No, I can take it from here, thanks Mrs Hudson."

"OK, call me if you need me," she flashed her usual comforting smile and departed. I took another look at my ridiculously dirty flatmate.

"See, Sherlock. That's what happens when you go non-stop on only a bite of toast and adrenaline for _five days_ with no sleep," I said, using my best _I-told-you-so_ voice. He was too far gone to respond and I shook my head at him redundantly.

It had been a trying case. We had spend all day searching for a killer who deposited all his victims on the South Bank and all night switching between running after and running away from his associates. Finally, when the case was cleared up, Sherlock had managed to scowl for a press photo before promptly falling into the Thames. I sighed as I flicked the kettle and set some tomato soup to heat on the hob.

"Only an idiot ignores his doctor," I mimicked in a poor imitation of Sherlock's deep rumbling baritone, thinking of when he uses my vain attempts to maintain his health as excuses to escape Lestrade once the fun has gone out of a case. "I know everything. I'm Sherlock fucking Holmes."

I was, of course, aware that Sherlock could probably hear me. He hadn't the strength to stand, talk or walk as he shivered against me on the walk home but his breathing was slow, telling me he was unconscious, and that hadn't changed since he had been slumped on the sofa.

I looked back at him again. He was still trembling.

I grabbed a tea towel, wetting it roughly, before heading back to the front room. After wrapping a blanket around his slender shoulders I began wiping the mud off his face so he could at least open his eyes if he awoke. I couldn't help but giggle as his eyes appeared in two pale circles, contrasting the rest of his face, making him like a strange-looking owl. He blinked at me.

"Hungry?"

He blinked again: a _ha-ha-very-funny-now-get-me-some-soup_ blink. I chuckled and headed back to the kitchen to collect the soup.

"Can you eat this by yourself?"

Blink. Translation: "I'll try." His left hand twitched, purple fingers making a valiant attempt to reach for the spoon I was holding out. Blink: "no."

I sighed and filled the spoon with soup, blowing it momentarily before holding it out before him. With some effort his blue, quivering lips parted enough to make way for my spoon.

It took a full half an hour to finish the soup, but after that the only mud-soaked consulting detective in the world had stopped shivering and was beginning to be able to move his arms legs and mouth, albeit weakly.

"Jugh," he said, and I assumed he was aiming for 'John.'

"Yes."

His mouth opened and closed without any sound coming out and his eyebrows furrowed in frustration. He wriggled – barely – to show his discomfort.

"Shower?" I suggested.

"Mm, he managed, the same frown still creasing his brow.

I held out a hand which he reached for, and missed. I tried not to smile, and failed.

"Come on then," I sighed, looping my forearms under his armpits and feeling his hands bounce off my back uselessly. I dragged him to the bathroom and balanced him on the edge of the bath, before running the taps – mostly hot.

"Bath or shower?"

"Mm."

"Was that bath?"

"Mm." Affirmative. I couldn't help but feel he was putting it on a bit now as I slid the plug into position.

"Would you like some bubble bath? Candles? A fluffy towel? Your Highness?"

"Mm."

I shook my head again. "Alright, I'll leave you to it."

"Jugh..." I couldn't help but feel a pang of sympathy then – he sounded so helpless and vulnerable.

"What is it?" I asked, concern lacing my tone.

"Uh – I... c-"

I could tell the communication difficulties were frustrating the usually ever-so-eloquent detective, but I just waited patiently.

"Can't. Move."

I looked at him curiously, his bottomless eyes staring through me. I went pink as I realised his meaning.

"You need ... more help?" I said, tone a little flustered. I wasn't sure if I imagined the flicker of amusement across his eyes as he gave a shy, embarrassed nod. I don't know why I was getting so embarrassed. I'd spent nearly a year in Afghanistan, as an army _doctor_, for God's sake, seeing men in all different states of undress. I'd even seen Sherlock in just a sheet before and it hadn't bothered me one bit _(I told myself)_ and he was forever walking around in that dressing gown – and nothing else, though I didn't think about that detail. _(Much.)_

"Alright," I said, trying to keep my tone casual and comforting as I began searching through the mud for the buttons on Sherlock's shirt. "You okay?"

"Mm."

"Yep. Good. Me too," I said, not feeling 'okay' at all as I pushed the stiff material off his shoulders. All this no-eating, no-sleeping business had taken its toll on Sherlock's body, I could see his ribs and collarbone poking out at me as if trying to breach his pale, fragile-looking skin.

"You really need to eat more," I chided.

"Mm." He sounded a bit more urgent now and the trembling was beginning again.

"OK, OK! Keep your pants on..." _Or don't_, I couldn't help but think as I reached for his belt. I slowly but surely unfastened the buckled and pulled the belt through the grungy rings on his trousers. "Better stand up for this bit," I said, pulling him back up onto his feet. He managed to lift one hand to brace himself against the bathroom wall but his forehead lolled against my shoulder. I could feel his breath ghosting through my shirt and onto my cool skin. My hands reached for his fly.

This was not how I imagined this would happen. If it would have ever happened. Not that I imagined it. _Ever._

"OK, in you get," I said, feeling like a mother bathing her child. A mother with a penis. A Penis that was making itself known against the stiff denim of my jeans. _Brilliant._

Sherlock turned to face the bath, with my help, and wobbled as he lifted on leg over the side. He used me to steady himself until he had both feet firmly under the hot water. Luckily the amount of mud that had accumulated on his body covered most of the bits that he wouldn't want me to see.. And that _I_ didn't want to see. Obviously. I _didn't_.

As I carefully helped him lower himself, the water turned black with grime. Sherlock sighed as he became immersed in the hot, now muddy water.

"Thik yugh," he mumbled.

"You're welcome." I replied, standing there for too long before I realized that this was a dismissal and turned on my heel, desperate to get away from the soaking Sherlock Holmes in our bath.


	2. Chapter Two

**Chapter Warnings: Non-graphic (but a bit more graphic than Chapter One. Just a bit) nudity and a bit of kissing**

Chapter Two

"John!"

I heard a faint call from the bathroom as I tried for the fourth time in twenty minutes to read the first sentence of the same article.

"Yes?" I said, moving to the door of the bathroom.

"I'm sufficiently clean now."

"Well... that's good?" I replied, uncertain how to respond.

"Quite. However I don't have a towel."

I blushed again.

And here I was thinking that I'd had my fill for awkwardness-caused-by-nudity for the day. A whole lifetime, in fact. Obviously I was wrong.

"Alright," I sighed, resignedly. "I'll get one."

I grabbed the warmest towel I could find, in the airing cupboard above the boiler, and brought it to the bathroom, giving one wary knock before I entered. And saw Sherlock. Naked. In the middle of the bathroom. _Naked._ Devoid of mud. Oh, and did I mention? He was also _naked._

"I – uh – sorry – I, um..." I said, trying in vain to tear my gaze away from Sherlock's chest, stomach co..._oh!_

"Are you alright, John?" Sherlock looked genuinely concerned – I found out when I finally managed to pull my eyes away from the junction between my flatmate's thighs.

"Fine!" I said, looking away and holding out the towel. I felt it slip from my grasp and heard the susurrus sound of it being wrapped around a damp body.

"Look at me," Sherlock purred – _purred?_ He was closer now, inches away, examining me. "Pink cheeks, dilated pupils, biting lip, hunched shoulders – anxious, hiding something, but wha- Oh..." Sherlock's eyes fell on the stretched material at the front of my trousers. "Arousal." Sherlock concluded matter-of-factly. "Did I... interrupt something, John? You should have just said that you were watching porn. I would have waited."

"What? No!" I cried, horrified. "I wasn't... I mean, I haven't been... Sherlock!" I felt my face grow impossible redder and I attempted to turn away but Sherlock grabbed my wrist, no doubt measuring my pulse, and yanked me back around.

"You weren't?" he asked. "Then, why...?" He trailed off.

"That... is a bloody good question." I answered and before I could stop myself I used my free hand to grasp his wet curls and pulled his lips against mine.

For a split second everything went beautifully, blissfully black. Then I realised what I was doing and drew back with a gasp. "S-sorry." I mumbled, averting my gaze from the deep, searching eyes above me. He stared at me like that for what must have been a good three minutes without moving. He didn't move, and I couldn't, trapped under his shimmering gaze.

"Me?" he finally asked, looking – for the first time in his life, probably, certainly since I had met him – as if he was scared that he had come to the wrong conclusion. He looked so vulnerable in that moment that I just wanted to wrap my arms around him and never let him go.

Instead, I nodded. "You."

And then his lips were on mine once more.


	3. Chapter Three

Chapter Three

So, there we were. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.

Unlikely flatmates, friends and partners engaged in a most unlikely situation.

The kiss was close-mouthed, soft and gentle, but nonetheless intimate and my heart rate must have at least tripled. Just as my mind started to wonder where this was going we heard a familiar voice from the hallway.

"Boys! I've baked a cake! Would you like some?"

We pulled away from each other then, but didn't answer her, just stared at each other, both searching for an answer that neither of us could provide.

"Doctor Watson?" called Mrs Hudson again.

"Coming, Mrs H," I called, finally tearing my eyes from Sherlock. I glanced back at him one more time, though, as I left the room and he was still staring at me but with a blank look in his eyes. I sighed and left him to his analytical trance.

"There you are, Doctor!" smiled Mrs Hudson as I emerged. "How is he?"

"What? Who? Oh, Sherlock. Yes. I mean, better. Hot, now. I mean, warmer. Not... cold." I waffled. She raised an eyebrow, but didn't ask any questions. _God bless her_.

"Here, I've made this Victoria Sponge. Shall I leave you a few slices? I... Oh, hello Sherlock."

My head snapped round so fast that it hurt a bit and was probably quite audible. I hoped, probably in vain, that the all-observant Holmes hadn't noticed. He was still staring blankly, but at least now he had his dressing gown on.

"Mrs Hudson", he said in way of greeting, accompanied by a swift nod, before turning and walking into the kitchen.

"He does look better. You do take good care of, you know, Doctor," Mrs Hudson observed.

"What? No I don't. I mean, I do, but... He needs more..."

"He's never let anyone get as close as you do. Look at is brother, always trying to help, always getting rebuffed. It's not healthy, really, but at least he has you now. I don't know how do it, but you connect with him, like no-one else ever has."

We looked into the kitchen, then, at the very disconnected-looking Sherlock sitting at the table with his hands crossed in front of his face, as if in prayer.

"Yes, well, I'm his _friend_, aren't I? That's what _friends_ do."

Mrs Hudson eyed me meaningfully, but once again remained silent. She took her cake into the kitchen and I shuffled reluctantly after her.

"Are you feeling better, Sherlock?" she asked.

No answer.

"Warmer?" she persisted.

"My body temperature has returned to normal, yes."

"Well, good. Would you like some cake?"

"No."

Mrs Hudson looked slightly hurt.

"He means that he would like some but not right now. He has this _annoying habit_ of saying things a bit too literally. I said, noting the hint of fondness in my tone when I should have sounded irritated. How irritating.

Sherlock huffed. "My intention is not to annoy but to avoid misleading someone. That's why I say what I mean. Nothing more, or less."

"Well that's very good of you but I'm sure it's not necessary in a conversation about _cake_, Sherlock."

His eyes flicked to me and back again, very quickly, when I said his name.

"Alright," said Mrs Hudson, looking a bit puzzled by the entire exchange. I'll just leave this here then."

She gave Sherlock one more concerned look and a grateful smile to me before leaving us both alone. _Again_.

"How do you feel?" I muttered after an uncomfortable period of silence.

"I..." Sherlock started. He looked confused, then incredibly frustrated, then blank once more, all in a matter of seconds. "Analysis ongoing."

"I ... see."

"Do you?"

"No."

"Me neither."

"You're warm now?"

"Adequate."

"Not hungry?"

"No."

"Thirsty?"

"No."

"Tired?"

"...my brain hurts, John."

"Your brain's tired. That's not surprising."

"I can't... I don't..." he sighed again. Then huffed.

"Can I help?"

"I don't know!" Sherlock cried, slamming his palms on the table. "I just... can't..."

"Here, calm down now," I soothed, automatically going to him and putting a hand tentatively on his shoulder. He leaned in to me immediately and my arms, seemingly of their own accord, wrapped around him so that one hand hugged him tighter and the other rested in his hair, which I stroked reassuringly. "It's OK. You're too tired to explain. Get some sleep and we'll talk tomorrow."

Sherlock sniffed, then nodded. I helped him up the stairs to his room and watched over him as he crawled underneath the covers.

"Goodnight, Sherlock."

"John?"

"Yes?"

"Will you stay? Just until I fall asleep. I can't stop _thinking_ and your annoying ramblings are a good distraction."

"Thanks Sherlock. You know how to make me feel needed."

"I do need you," Sherlock admitted, again in his matter-of-fact tone, although this time his eyes widened a little as he said it, as if he hadn't meant to say it out loud.

"OK, I'll stay. Until you fall asleep." I sat on the edge of the bed.

"Talk."

"About...?"

"Something boring."

"Like what?"

"I don't know. The solar system? Lestrade's haircut? Soap operas?"

"I didn't notice Greg's haircut..."

"Who?"

"Never mind. I'll update you on what's happening on Corrie lately... So you know-"

"No."

"Well, she's the one who-"

"Don't care."

"Well she's cheated on her husband."

Sherlock yawned. "Boring. Good. Keep going."

"And now..." I yawned too, then.

"You can lie down if you want," Sherlock offered quietly.

"I, er... OK. I lay down beside him on top of the covers and continued telling him about the various storylines of Coronation Street, until he fell asleep, which, unsurprisingly, didn't take long. I yawned again and closed my eyes for a moment, planning to retreat to my own bed soon.

When I opened my eyes there was a gentle weight on my chest and the smell of shampoo in my nostrils.


	4. Chapter Four

**Chapter Warnings: fairly graphic descriptions of masturbation (Yay! Unfortunately no actual masturbation takes place in this chapter. What's the opposite of yay?)**

Chapter Four

I started as I realised that it was _Sherlock_ with his arm draped over me and his head on my chest. The jerky movement disturbed his sleep momentarily and he mumbled something, frowning, before stilling again. He got so little sleep that I didn't want to wake him and our proximity was making my heart beat audibly faster, so I gently peeled him off of me and retreated to the kitchen to make myself some tea.

Sherlock didn't wake up for another couple of hours. By the time he surfaced I was just about to head out for my shift at the surgery.

"Where are you going?" a low, sleep-soft putt came from behind me as I made to exit the flat. I turned around to see Sherlock standing in his loosely tied robe, his hair sticking out in all directions. I smiled, happy that he'd finally gotten some sleep after the long case = I tried not to think about _why_ he might have slept so well.

"Just going to work, Sherlock. I'll be back in five hours."

He pouted, then, looking like a petulant child. "What about me?"

"You're a big boy. You can entertain yourself for a while. But leave Mrs Hudson's wall alone," I added as an afterthought, "and try _not_ to blow up any body parts in the microwave. It took me ages to get rid of all the remnants from those eyes.

"Fine." Sherlock huffed, flopping himself down on the sofa with a dramatic twirl of his robe.

All day at work I struggled to concentrate. Between patients my mind kept shifting to Sherlock. We'd kissed. We'd slept together over night. This was not usual flat-mate behaviour. However, it had all seemed normal this morning when I'd left. Sherlock had been his usual stroppy self, with me acting the mother as always.

And yet there was one difference. The whole time, I had wanted to grab those tousled curls and crash our lips together once more. I shook my head as my next patient walked through door, trying in vain to dispose the image of Sherlock and me, lip-locked once more...

"Back!" I called as I entered the empty living room.

"Already?" Sherlock asked from the kitchen, even though I wasn't early. I turned to see him, still in his dressing gown of course, inspecting a Petri dish through a microscope.

"Found something to do then," I observed as I hung up my coat. "New case, or just an experiment?"

"The latter, though I'm finding some _difficulty_," he said using the usual frustrated tone he uses when lack of sleep and food get the better of him and he's reaching for a solution that's just out of his grasp. He sounds almost human when he uses that voice, I thought fondly. _Fondly?_

"Why is it difficult?"

"I'm distracted."

"OK, by what?"

He looked at me with a hint of realisation in his otherwise blank stare, which was unfortunately starting to become very familiar.

"I have a problem, possibly medical – mostly medical, I'd say, and you're a doctor."

"Yes, very well observed. What's the problem?" I asked, trying to hide my slight concern to avoid putting him off – after all, it wasn't often that Sherlock admitted his problems, much less confided them in me.

"John, will you look at my penis?"

Of all the things Sherlock could have said, I think _that_ was at the top of the 'Least Expected' list. I really didn't have an answer. Instead, several different emotions – shock, confusion, panic, to name but a few – coursed through me and certainly flickered across my reddening face. Sherlock's face remained impassive.

"I ... er ... maybe you should go to your own doctor about that kind of problem Sherlock." I said, averting my gaze and running a hand through my hair in a gesture of distress.

"_You're_ my doctor, John," Sherlock said quietly, sounding a little hurt. "I need your help."

I opened and closed my mouth soundlessly for a while, way of response.

"Shouldn't you be happy that I am finally taking an interest in my health?"

"Well ... yes ..." as always his logic was sound. "OK, well... what kind of... _problem_ is it? Does it hurt?"

"Sort of," Sherlock said, even more quietly. He, too, was now avoiding eye contact, opting to stare at the opposite wall instead.

"What kind of pain is it? Stinging? Aching?"

"More like a... throbbing pain. I've had worse from injuries, but I've been able to ignore it. Delete it. Zone it out. I can't avoid this kind of pain."

"Are there any, er, _physical_ symptoms, visible effects?"

"Yes."

I waited for further explanation.

"I have had a fairly constant erection for quite some time."

"Oh. Is that all?" I said, almost smiling in my relief that Sherlock did not have some kind of infection – motivated only by my concern for his overall well-being and health, of course. Of course.

"What do you mean, _'is that all?'_ It is very distracting and I want to know how to make it go away!" He was looking at me again now, obviously angry with me for trivialising an issue that obviously wasn't very common for him.

"Sherlock, when was the last time you ... you know...?"

Blank stare.

"You _know_." I tried once more.

Nothing.

"The last time you got off ... came ... _ejaculated_."

"Oh," finally a response – coming conveniently just after the point where the conversation turned from _slightly awkward_ to _downright humiliating._ "I haven't."

"What do you mean you _haven't_?"

"I have never ... done any of those things you mentioned. I'm not interested in such things, you should know that about me, John."

"Well clearly your body disagrees. It's just trying to tell you to release the pressure." I blushed again, caught between giggling like a school girl and running screeching from this bizarre scenario.

"Dull."

"It's not _dull_, Sherlock, it's a basic need. You shouldn't deny yourself."

"I don't feel any worse for it. _This_ has never happened before. It's _your_ fault anyway, so I believe social etiquette requires that you take responsibility for your actions."

"My ... my fault? What?"

"Ever since the other night when we ..."

"Kissed?" I offered, regretting it immediately when he smirked at my re-colouring cheeks.

"Yes. That's when it started. That's why I blame you."

"Had you never ... kissed someone before?"

"No."

"You're probably just confused and frustrated. It's all caused by a build up of hormones. Just go and have a bath ... relax, release the tension and you'll be able to concentrate on exploding eye balls and dissected toes again in no time." I said, effectively – in my view anyway – extracting myself from the situation. I turned the kettle going and got a cup out of the cupboard.

"Is that what you do, John? Masturbate in the bath?" Sherlock's voice was in my ear, his breath hot on my neck. I let out an involuntary wince that sounded a bit like a squeak, but it _wasn't_ a squeak. Obviously. _Soldier's_ don't _squeak_. Even if they are being tempted by Sherlock bloody Holmes.

"Er... Sherlock that's a bit personal..."

"Is it?" he retreated slightly. "My apologies, I just don't know what to do..."

"Sherlock, I am _not_ giving you masturbation advice. Just ... follow your instincts,

Sherlock stared at me for a while. He was standing now and I could see the very obvious bulge in his pyjama bottoms. He adjusted himself self-consciously and made me realise I had been staring.

"I – sorry – I," I stammered.

"Will you kiss me again, John?"

_Yes_, my body screamed. "No Sherlock, that's a ... that's a bad ... idea ..." I trailed off as he slowly approached me, like a lion stalking a deer. Except Sherlock was more like an elegant deer, and I was normally the brave lion-like one. Until now.

"You said to follow my instincts. It ... _aroused_ me when you kissed me. I stayed erect; I've been so for _hours_. Because of you. I think it's a logical conclusion that I would benefit from a sexual experience with you, since you caused the first sexual arousal I'd ever felt. Don't you agree?"

"Well, yes ... ah ... that does ... make sense, but ..."

"But _what_, John?" Sherlock waves his hands in the air as he turned on the spot and slumped back in his chair. "I'm so _frustrated_ John! Help me!" he cried.

"Alright, alright! Calm down. I'll ... _help_ you ... " I submitted. I couldn't help myself. I never can with Sherlock.

"Good," he said simply, standing up and smiling. "I'll run the bath then, shall I?"

"Well I don't-" _think that's necessary,_ was what I was about to say, but he had already bounded off into the bathroom.

I sat down in his chair then, rubbing my half-hard cock through my jeans. What had I gotten myself into with Sherlock Holmes?

**A/N: Agh! Even I'm getting frustrated with myself now, I have this all written down and I keep thinking **_**this is it, this is the smut chapter!**_** I'm almost certain the next chapter is the one, is it possible for me to delay this any further? Probably, but I'm sure I'm not that cruel. Hopefully!**

**Thank you all so much for favourite-ing and reviewing and story alerting **

**If you want, follow me on tumblr! I mostly just reblog but it's full of great Sherlock posts and posts from my other fandoms – but if I had more followers I'd probably be more active with my own posts :D That's not a hint, I just really don't know how to get followers I'm a bit new!**

**Anyway, I should update tomorrow at around the same time so keep checking those emails **


	5. Chapter Five

**Chapter Warnings: masturbation (actual masturbation this time) in the bath! Yippee!**

Chapter Five

"OK, John! I'm ready!" he called from the bathroom.

I took a steadying breath that didn't do any actual steadying whatsoever and made my way into the bathroom. Sherlock was in the bath, just about, as he's too tall to fit in it completely. His head hung over the back, his arms over the sides and his ankles and feet were visible on either side of the tap. The rest of him, thank God, was covered by sweet-smelling, foamy bubbles. I sighed. Sherlock's eyes were closed and his hair was damp. I couldn't help by run my fingers through those wet curls. He hummed in approval and lifted his right hand up, searching until it found my neck and pulled our heads together gently. Our lips met once more and I couldn't stop the moan of relief from escaping as I realised I'd been waiting for this since the first time.

Sherlock hesitated at the sound. "Bit not good?" he mumbled, sounding lost and a bit frightened, actually.

"Not not good," I assured him. "Very good, in fact,"

"Mm," he agreed and we were kissing again. Before long Sherlock's tongue ventured out of those beautiful lips to win run along my bottom lip inquiringly. I moaned again and parted my lips to allow our tongues to meet. There was a splashing sound as Sherlock's hips bucked and he let out a tortured groan.

"Please John ... I need ... " He didn't finish, desperately probing his tongue back into my mouth, but neither did he need to. I took deep breath, without breaking the kiss, and dripped my hand beneath the bubbles. My fingertips met skin which I quickly identified as his lower belly from the sprinkling of hair leading from his belly button, which I followed. Sherlock moaned and arched again.

"Patience," I breathed, though my own control was slipping.

Sherlock let out another moan which sounded grumpy as well as needy and clearly meant _now!_

My fingers skimmed lower until they came into contact with smooth turgid flesh and I automatically wrapped them around, swiping the pad of my thumb over the tip experimentally.

"John!" Sherlock growled. I deepened the kiss as I began to stroke slowly yet firmly. Sherlock gradually lost his ability to kiss then until he was thrashing, his arms flailing wildly one minute and gripping the side of the tub so hard his knuckles widened the next, as he tried both to push into the overstimulation as well as pull away from it. His hips bucked and he began crying out – wordless shouts that were drawn straight to my cock.

Since I was no longer getting anything out of Sherlock's mouth except meaningless exclamations of pleasure, I latched on to his neck, nipping and sucking – causing Sherlock to react even more wildly.

"John!" he cried. "John I feel – I'm – oh, _John_..." he said the last thing as a breathy moan as I felt the familiar tremors of orgasm. I continued stroking softly until Sherlock's eyes closed once more – they had opened wide when he started coming – and removed my hand from the water, albeit reluctantly.

"Feel better?" I asked, my voice a little shaky and hoarse.

"Sherlock mumbled something incomprehensible.

I'll take that as a 'yes'," I chuckled, feeling rather smug. "I'll just be outside if you need me. And don't fall asleep in here," I added, ever the mother, "the water will get cold and I don't want you to get hypothermia.

Any feelings of pride and smugness vanished as I sat down on the sofa. I , a straight (or so I thought) army doctor, has just wanked off Sherlock Holmes, an asexual (or so I thought) sociopath with no interest in such trivial matters as _sex_ or _relationships_.

What on earth was going on?


	6. Chapter Six

**Chapter Warnings: more masturbation (yippee!) this time on the sofa **

**Teeny bit angsty and lots fluffy at the end! Enjoy – more chapters to come!**

Chapter Six

Sherlock re-entered the living room about ten minutes later. He had re-donned his dressing gown and I could see his white t-shirt in the V of the robe, however I could tell from the glimpse of skin and ankle I caught as he walked that he hadn't bothered to put his pyjama bottoms back on – this did nothing to deflate my remaining erection. He sat down in his armchair and picked up the paper.

"Sherlock, I-"

"Come in, Mrs Hudson!" he called, just before there was a small knock on the door. He hadn't even looked up from the paper.

Mrs Hudson entered the room, looking around worriedly.

"Everything alright, Mrs H?" I asked.

"I just heard a lot of shouting ... are you both alright?"

"Yes, fine." I replied a bit too hastily.

"Just one of my _louder_ experiments," Sherlock offered in the way of explanation, catching my eye for a split-second before returning his gaze to his paper.

"Oh dear, do you actually _learn_ anything from those silly experiments of yours?" Mrs Hudson asked, absent-mindedly tidying up the flat.

Sherlock looked up, affronted. "Of course I do! Obviously. Some _are_ more successful than others, granted. They are _all_ useful to me, in some way or another."

"I'm sure they are, dear," Mrs Hudson said, unconvincingly. "Well I can't see any damage, surprisingly, so I'm going back to Mrs Turner's, if you need me."

"We won't," Sherlock smiled after her as she left the flat. "You were saying?"

I looked up and he was staring straight back at me so intensely that I looked away again immediately. "I, um ... lost my train of thought," I said weakly.

"Are you alright, John?"

I was so surprised at the genuine concern in his voice that it took me a little time to answer.

"Yes, Sherlock, I am, actually... just very confused..." I was embarrassed to find that tears were prickling in my eyes. Sherlock noticed – of course he did. He rushed over to kneel in front of me and gripped my thighs reassuringly.

"John. Look at me. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to force you, I-"

"It's OK, Sherlock, you didn't force me. I wanted to do it. I wanted to help."

"Thank you John, but then why are you upset?"

I felt sympathy, then, for Sherlock-the-sociopath who, try as he might, couldn't tell you about _feelings_ to save his life.

"I've just... always known who I am ... or thought I did. John Watson. Doctor. Soldier. Brother, son. Sometimes boyfriend, sometimes not. Always _straight_, until now... I live a boring life and nothing ever happens to me. Until I met you."

"You're still the same, John. It's just the situation has changed, and you're adapting. Do you regret moving in with me?"

"No, I don't. Not for a second." I smiled as one last tear dripped down my cheek. Sherlock moved closer as he wiped the tear away with one long, pale finger.

"Thank you, John," he said, pressing his lips to mine very softly and pulling away almost immediately. My cock stirred with renewed interest as I looked down at the criminally handsome man on his knees before me.

"Come here," I whispered and Sherlock lent forward once more. This kiss contained the same amount of desire as the one in the bathroom, but not as fiery and fierce. It did not lack in passion, however, and soon my jeans were tightening painfully against my erection. I moaned in frustration and attempted to discreetly rub my shaft through my jeans, trying to relieve some of the pressure. As I did so I felt icy fingers brush mine aside as they began to work on my belt buckle.

Sherlock pulled back slightly, searching for any doubt or distress. "OK?" he asked.

I closed my eyes and nodded as my body involuntarily arched up towards Sherlock's beautiful, elegant hands. "Please," I panted. He eagerly unzipped my trousers and dipped his hand beneath my waistband. "Oh, Sherlock! Yes!"

"John..." he moaned as he began to stroke, after releasing me from the confines of my jeans and pants.

"Sherlock ... faster ..."

I'm so close, it's been ages since someone touched me like this and I;m approaching the edge embarrassingly fast.

"I'm ... Sherlock, I ... can't..." I choke.

"Let go, John" Sherlock breathes, and then he's kissing me again, pushing his tongue into my mouth and suddenly I'm coming all over his fingers and my stomach, moaning and grunting like a horny teenager. Sherlock grabs a tissue and wipes my stomach and his hands while I recover. Then he curls up on the sofa with me, practically in my lap as he lays his head on my shoulder.

**A/N: so there you have it! Two chapters in one go AND smuttiness :D double yay!**

**So there is more smut on the way – obviously I couldn't just leave it as this – but a LOT more plot got in the way. I've given up on calling this PWP but it seems the plot is okay seeing as I'm getting lots of lovely reviews thank you all so much for your lovely comments!**

**Very busy over the next few days but I will TRY to update as much as possible!**


	7. Chapter Seven

**Chapter Warnings: None! (Unless you count 'bloody' as a swear word, or are offended by towel-clad John Watson – which if you are, I strongly suggest you leave and seriously wonder how you got this far?) I promise more smut in future chapters – for now, just some angst from our highly-strung boys!**

Chapter Seven

We lay like that for a few minutes before I got a cramp in my leg and gave Sherlock an affectionate shove so I could go and take a shower.

When I came back out, Sherlock was in his usual position hunched over a microscope. I smiled fondly at him before turning to head for my bedroom.

"John."

"Yes, Sherlock?" I responded, swivelling back round again immediately.

"Pass me that Petri dish."

"Which one?" I asked but there was no answer, so I walked further into the kitchen, searching. It turned out that the dish was less than an arm's length from him on the table. I sighed and handed it to him, anyway.

"Good." He said, in way of thanks I presumed. I watched him for a while; the long slender neck protruding from his too-tight shirt (he had obviously changed while I was showering), and the elegant fingers moving swiftly but delicately on the dials of his microscope. I walked up behind him and put my hands on his shoulders moving my thumbs in circles just under his shoulder blades as I leant down to breathe in the scent of his hair. I hummed in pleasure.

"John, what are you doing?"

"Isn't it obvious?" I murmured into his hair.

"You're distracting me."

"That's the point."

"Don't bother me now, John. I'm working." He snapped. My hands stilled and I stepped back, causing them to slide off his thin bones and slap at my sides.

"I... OK," I said, trying to keep the confusion and hurt bubbling up inside me out of my voice. _Why was I so hurt?_ I turned away and began walking towards my bedroom once again, now feeling very vulnerable, wearing just a towel...

"I've upset you."

I froze.

"No. You haven't." I could hear my voice shake and I wanted to kick myself.

"I have. You're limping again,. Your leg hurts you when someone has upset you."

"How very _observant_ of you Sherlock." I turn to face him once more, the hurt and confusion felt moments previously quickly morphing into anger. "If only you could figure it out _before_ you say something hurtful!" I almost shout.

"I don't understand, John." Sherlock replied.

"Neither do I! Tell me what this is? What _we_ are! What has just happened between us, and what does it mean? To you?"

Sherlock looked thoughtful for about half a second, probably less. "We are flatmates and friends. I am a detective, you are a doctor. I had a medical issue and you were there to help me. I still don't see why you're so upset."

"Because it's confusing! You've made me doubt who I am by pulling me in and now you're pushing me away again."

"I never suggested I wanted a long-term arrangement!" his eyes were flashing with anger now, too.

"Tell me this, then, _detective_," I spat bitterly. "If that was all about your _problem_, then why did you reciprocate?"

"I..." Sherlock's face contorted into what looked like a grimace. "I wanted to see ... what people get so excited about."

I stared at him. "I knew this was a bad idea," I muttered, before anger welled up inside me again. "I'm not your experiment, Sherlock!"

"No, you're not. Anymore. That experiment is over and I have catalogued the results for investigation at a later time. Currently another experiment is occupying me."

I continued to stare at him in disbelief, not caring that my mouth was hanging open dumbly, in fact I was only mildly aware of it. "You are unbelievable. I'm supposed to be your _friend_."

"You are my friend."

"No, I'm not. I'm not, Sherlock, because friends care about each other. About each other's _feelings_, Sherlock. And they are there to comfort and reassure them when they feel hurt, lost, confused... They are _not_ supposed to be the ones _causing_ those feelings and they are certainly _not_ supposed to CATALOGUE THEM AS BLOODY DATA!" I cried before turning and finally escaping the intense look that Sherlock had fixed on me.

I stayed in my room for over two hours. Sat on my bed, I imagined leaving 221B forever, going to live with Harry, or find some other flat mate... I felt sick at the thought. No matter how much of a sociopath he was, I _needed_ Sherlock and the lift that came with him. Mycroft was right. I did miss the battlefield, and this was the closest I could come to reaching it again.

Was that what this was about then? Did I want to get hurt? For Sherlock to be the one to hurt me?

But Sherlock didn't just cause me pain all the time, although I'm certain that all the anxiety, panic and concern I have experienced since meeting him has shortened my lifespan considerably. No, I was _happy_ with Sherlock... We had a laugh and I found him fascinating; revelling in qualities that others found irritating.

I couldn't help but feel I was made for this life.

_For Sherlock?_

I shook my head, trying to shake the thoughts right out of it.

_Don't do it John,_ I told myself. _Don't fall for Sherlock bloody Holmes._

As if on cue, my door burst open and there she stood, already wearing his coat and pulling his scarf around his neck.

"Come on John, we've got a case!" he cried as he took my coat off the back of my door and tossed it at me.

I wanted to yell at him for presuming I would just follow his commands, I really did, but he was already gone and , of course, I was following him. As usual.


	8. Chapter Eight

**Warnings: just a bit of neck-licking. Bit pathetic really. Honestly, this is supposed to be porn. What am I doing? I may as well just send this to the BBC for ideas... maybe that's not such a good idea... Oh well, enjoy!**

Chapter Eight

"Who are you?" Sherlock asked the female police officer disdainfully as we approached the crime scene. "Where's Lestrade?"

"He's off duty tonight ... family troubles or something," she shrugged. She was very attractive, with lightly tanned skin, dark hair, shining green eyes and full lips. She smiled at me curiously before turning back to Sherlock. "I know you must be Holmes, Greg said you would be arrogant and rude, but who's this?" she asked looking back at me.

"This is Doctor Watson, my ... colleague," he murmured after searching my gaze, which I directed away from him immediately.

"Well, come and take a look then," she lifted the police tape and ushered us toward to body.

Sherlock went to work as usual, deducing outrageous and ridiculous things and backing them up with pure simple logic every time he was questioned by the DI.

"Is he always like this?" she asked me after a particularly cutting comeback.

I nodded, unable to keep from smiling. "I've never seen him any other way. Not since he day we met."

"Oh ... And how long have you been together?"

"How..? What? No, we're _not_ together." I corrected, the common assumption hitting the nerve more sharply than usual. "Just friends. Colleagues. Flatmates."

She smiles knowingly – in a way that reminds me of Mrs Hudson most although I get the same smile on a daily basis from just about everyone we meet – at my confirmation of my heterosexuality. Even I'm not convinced this time but it only serves to make me more determined to prove it, this time, as if proving I'm straight would mean the burgeoning feelings I had for Sherlock did not exist. If they didn't exist, then I couldn't worry over them, right? I couldn't be hurt. Could I? "What about you? Do you have a boyfriend, or are you unattached, like me?" I ask nonchalantly.

"Nope, not much time for that I guess."

"So you're not free tonight then, for a drink?"

"Well, actually..."

"Boring!" Sherlock exclaimed. "Easy! Simple! Obvious! You people are such idiots!" he cried, with a little more venom than usual – he normally didn't really mean to be insulting, even if I was the only one who recognised this. "It's clear that her uncle did it. Here," he scribbled down an address in his notepad and thrust it at the DI. "Investigate this. Come on John," he grabbed my wrist and pulled me back towards the tape. I shook his hand off and he stopped, staring at me inquisitively.

"Sherlock, stop! I'm _trying_ to pull. I was just about to ask her out!"

"I know. And she was going to say 'yes'. So let's go."

"That doesn't make any sense," I argued.

"I know." Sherlock repeated, before he grabbed my wrist again and began running frantically, as if being chased. Suddenly, he changed direction swiftly and stopped.

I looked around as I got my breath back. Sherlock was holding me up against the wall of a darkened alleyway.

"Sherlock, what –"

"It doesn't make any sense!" he cried irritably, tugging at his hair in frustration.

"What doesn't?"

"I thought that today was the end of it. That if I actually _acted_ on those feelings of desire they would go away. But they haven't. And I don't want you go for drinks with _her_."

"Sherlock, are you ... _jealous?_" I asked, unable to stop myself feeling a little smug.

"No! Yes! I don't know!" his voice almost sounded like a sob.

"Sherlock, you can't _do_ this to me. One minute you want me, the next you don't, and the next you're acting all jealous and possessive. You're not allowed to do that. I don't belong to you!"

"Yes you do." Sherlock huffed. "You're _my_ friend. _My _colleague. _My _partner. _My_ flatmate."

"That doesn't mean I'm not allowed to date."

"It does. I don't want them to have you."

"Do you want me?"

"I- " Sherlock looked confused. " I don't know what I want, John." He buried his head in my chest, sounding and looking like a kicked puppy. I couldn't help but put an arm around his shoulders, albeit awkwardly.

"It's OK, Sherlock. It's _alright_ to be confused sometimes.

"Not for me, it isn't. I don't get confused." He sniffed.

"Well then, just concentrate on the things you're _certain_ about, then you can ignore the confusion."

"OK, I'm certain that ... we're friends?"

"Yes."

"And you're _my_ doctor."

"Not exclusively but yes, Sherlock."

"And I don't want you to go for drinks with that women.

"That's very selfish of you, Sherlock," I chided, gently.

"I don't care."

"I know, but I won't go out with her, happy?"

" For now." He replied, shuffling closer still. "John, are you attracted to me?"

"Sherlock..."

"Please, John," his hands tighten in my coat. "Tell the truth."

"You probably already _know_ the truth. And if not, you'll know if I'm lying, anyway..." I sighed, glad for the darkness as it was hiding my flushed face.

Sherlock didn't respond verbally, instead he turned his head so that his soft lips brushed the skin of my neck. I moaned gutturally.

"I think ... that ... answers your ... question," I pant as his tongue sneaks out to taste my skin. This time it's Sherlock who moans – a needy, _hungry _whine that sends shivers down my spine. I took Sherlock's face in my hands and looked into his eyes. He looked like a deer caught in headlights, his eyes wide, his brow furrowed, his mouth slightly open where his breath was coming out fast in small, shallow pants.

"It's fine Sherlock." I reassured him, pressing my lips softly to his for a moment. "It' _all _fine."


	9. Chapter Nine

**Warnings: none, but a bit of fluff (don't worry, smut is coming... pardon the pun)**

Chapter Nine

The cab ride home was completely silent, but Sherlock broke it as soon as we entered the flat.

"Are you still angry with me?"

I thought for a moment. "No, but what I said earlier... I meant it. You can't just experiment on me whenever you feel like it. I'm a person, an ordinary, boring one, I know, but I'm still not a guinea pig. I'm your friend, and that's not how friends treat each other, high-functioning sociopath or not."

"You're wrong."

"What?" I was dumbstruck, unable to believe he was going to argue against me.

"You're wrong. You're _not_ ordinary. Nor are you boring."

"Oh, that. Look Sherlock, I am very aware of the fact I'm not a genius like you, and –"

"No, you're not a genius. You're mind is average. Like Lestrade's. Or Mrs Hudson's... Yet, you are an enigma. When I first met you ..."

"You could read everything about me!"

"I could read everything about your _life_, what had happened, who was involved... But I couldn't tell you a thing about _you_. John Watson. As a person. Every time I think I've got it you do something surprising. Something unpredictable. I can't wrap my head around you."

"Is that, a, er ... compliment?"

Sherlock grasped me by my shoulders. "You are extraordinary." And then he let go. "Goodnight John."

I stared after him as he bounded into his bedroom, stopping only to pick up a laptop – _mine,_ obviously – on his way through.

"Goodnight, Sherlock..."


	10. Chapter Ten

**Warnings: morning glory, BAMF!John, blowjob, fingering, wanking, and as usual, COMING! Also – alleyway sex as I feel bad for putting the boys in an alleyway in Chapter 8 without letting them get their rocks off. Enjoy!**

(A/N: I swear my warnings are more explicit than my actually stories. Apologies to anyone who genuinely makes it here by accident.)

Chapter Ten

I dreamt of Sherlock that night. It would have been a welcome break from the nightmares, were it not for the fact that I woke up with two things I was immediately aware of.

The first was a raging hard-on in my boxers.

The second was a consulting detective sitting on my bed, staring at me expectantly.

"Can I help you?" I asked, trying to directly adjust the sheet to minimise visibility of my ... situation.

"You were moaning and thrashing. I thought you were having a nightmare. Then I came in to see if I could wake you..."

"And?"

"You were saying my name."

My face coloured and I wanted to crawl under the sheets.

"Well, I, er ... it was a nightmare." I lied.

"You're lying," he grinned at me.

"Look, Sherlock..."

"We can talk about this later. Lestrade needs us!" his grin widened before he threw some jeans at my face and exited the room.

Sally Donovan was the first one to spot us as we made our way towards the crime scene.

"Detective Inspector," she called in a sing-song voice, before her mouth turned up in a sneer. "The _freak's_ here."

Only I saw the flicker of emotion on Sherlock's features, the brief expression that betrayed his human side; his hurt when people called him on his sociopathic tendencies.

"Shut your mouth, Sally." I snapped. "He's not a freak, he's a genius and the only reason you don't like him being here is because he does your job better than you ever will. The truth hurts and if you don't want to hear it don't provoke me again..."

By this time Lestrade has approached. He raised an eyebrow at me as Sally stormed away, before reeling off details of the victim to Sherlock. He didn't look like he was paying attention, instead he focused on me so intensely that I shuffled uncomfortably under his scrutiny.

"Sherlock are you listening?"

"No," was the swift reply. "But it seems simple enough. Investigate the grandmother. Come on John."

"What?" I felt that this was becoming a habit...

"We're leaving," he called over his shoulder as he had already started to walk away. I smiled at Lestrade apologetically before following, as usual.

For the second time in 24 hours, I found myself in a back alley with Sherlock Holmes, standing so close we were sharing breath.

"Everything alright?" I asked, feeling a little unnerved.

"Yes, he said.

"What's going on, Sherlock?"

"John you are incredible. What you did back there was ... good."

"It's okay. I know hose snidy comments do get to you sometimes, and it's not fair for them to take their frustrations out on you because they think you don't have feelings."

"You make me so confused John!" Sherlock cried. I can't decide whether to hug you or kiss you. You make my heart beat faster, my stomach twist and my penis is _so hard_ right now John."

"Oh God," I gasped and leaned into him as my knees weakened. He seemed not to notice, continuing his ramblings, "I just don't know how to react ..."

"Kissing, that sounded good, you said..." I waffled.

"Agreed," He affirmed and his lips were on mine. We moaned simultaneously.

I pushed him gently until his back was pressed against the wall and I was pressed against him. I could feel that he did indeed have an impressive erection as it twitched noticeably against my thigh. I pushed my hand between us and our kiss continued as I palmed his cock through his trousers. He moaned into my mouth, the sound sending shivers of desire through my whole body. I went to work on his fly, releasing him with a moan as I discovered he wasn't wearing underwear. Finally I broke the kiss and sank to my knees, licking my lips as I eyes his beautifully long penis.

"Want – to taste you – please – let me..."

"God, yes," Sherlock panted with a little thrust of his hips, causing is penis to bob invitingly in front of me. I leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the glistening tip, earning a deep groan. I licked around the head until Sherlock was practically sobbing before skipping my lips down his length as far as I could go.

"John!" he cried. "Please!"

I began to move, sucking and licking all the way long his cock as it twitched in my mouth.

"Oh God John, feel so ..."

Good. It was _so good_ but I wanted to give him more pleasure as the noises he was making were so delectable. I slipped a finger in my mouth alongside his cock before dragging it gently down the cleft of his arse. My own arousal was pressing painfully against my zipper so I released my own cock, stroking it softly as I circled Sherlock's clenching opening with my wet finger.

"John! Yes! Please" Sherlock howled. I gave one long suck, my cheeks hollowing, as I pushed my finger past the tight barrier, using my doctor's knowledge to press directly against his prostate. He howled again.

"John, I can't – " was all the warning Sherlock managed before my mouth filled with viscous fluid as quivering muscles tightened around my finer. The multitude of sensation ripped my orgasm from me suddenly – I cried out, struggling to swallow and come at the same time. I remained where I was for a moment, recovering, before carefully sliding my finger out of my flatmate's rear (_there's a sentence I never thought I'd say_) and zipping him back up before attending to myself. At last, I stood on shaky legs, facing him. He looked deliciously debauched.

"John, I ... That was ... That is, you..."

"Sherlock," I sighed, leaning my head against his shoulder as his long arms encircled me.

"Take me home, John," he whispered into my hair.

**A/N:** Triple update! It was going to be a double but the last chapter was ridiculously short, so I'm counting this with it! Sorry I haven't updated in a while I was away for the weekend at a Torchwood con! Finally met Gareth David-Lloyd! _Swoon_. Ah but I'm rambling. Anyway thanks for reading, and check out my new Sherlock story up today :D


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Warnings: mentions of past (orally) sexual activities ;) and a bit of rubbing – though not private parts sorry!**

Chapter Eleven

The next few days seemed like everything was back to normal. I decided not to mention the thing, whatever it was, happening between us until I received any signs that Sherlock wanted to talk about it. So far I hadn't even got a hint that he was even thinking about it, but I suppose that's understandable. I remembered my first experiences of intimacy – acting on instinct cause by overactive hormones. Sherlock, it appeared, was not affected by hormonally charged sexual desires and frustrations in his youth, or at least he had decided not to act on them. I considered, then, that all of this must be very confusing to Sherlock – I couldn't imagine having all those feelings I had as a teenager affecting me as a grown man and Sherlock always needed to _know_, especially when it concerned himself. He had always, since the day we met, seemed so sure of himself; he _knew_ himself. Clearly, I wasn't the only one questioning my preconceived knowledge about myself.

Now, I say _almost_ back to normal, because there were subtle – yet noticeable – differences.

As we had no case, Sherlock was engrossing himself in his experiments. He was constantly playing with chemicals and peering through his microscope. Normal behaviour, so far. However, every now and then he would look up and stare at the wall, as if he was looking straight through it and into the distance. This was very un-Sherlockian behaviour; he told me once that once he got started with an experiment he couldn't stop for anything until he had results. After a few minutes he would shake his head with a frown and get on with it, causing me to wonder what was on his mind.

The second oddity was the fact that I kept catching him staring at _me._ He would always look away immediately if eye contact was made, but there was something _there_, in his eyes... I couldn't quite place it, probably because I could only catch glimpses of it, but it was intense nonetheless.

Finally, and most worryingly, Sherlock seemed to be getting even less sleep than normal. I would come down in the morning and find him sitting in his armchair with my laptop, in the same position I'd left him in the night before, staring at the screen. I checked the history to see what might be distracting him enough to keep him awake, but the only website listed was my blog – probably from where I'd left it open after editing it.

After a solid week, in which Sherlock had probably survived on 1-2 hours of sleep a night, I'd had enough.

"Sherlock, is everything okay?" I asked, catching him in one of his moments; staring at nothing in particular.

He started slightly, and then looked at me blankly.

"Fine, John, why do you ask?"

"You seem ... distracted."

"Yes. Good. I'm always looking for a _distraction_ when not on a case. Aren't you glad I'm not shooting the wall?" His lips twitched in a vague smile, but his red-rimmed eyes told me he was exhausted. Plus, he was speaking too quickly – diagnosis: hiding something.

"Are you sleeping Sherlock? At all?"

"I..." He looked away. Diagnosis: avoidance.

"Sherlock." I said softly.

"No. I can't. I can't sleep," he said quietly, but his frustration was obvious.

"Less than usual?"

"Sleep is boring but ... necessary. I used to sleep for about four hours on and off. Recently I have been getting maybe an hour, two hours maximum," he explained, gesturing wildly with open hands.

Very large hands...

_Stop it John, _I thought, clearing my throat of a sudden lump.

"Maybe you just need to unwind. Don't go on the laptop before bed, it stimulates your brain. Take a bath, change your sheets, read a book – a _light-hearted_ one, not about decomposition or anything like that..."

Sherlock considered me briefly before nodding in reluctant agreement. His neck clicked as he did so and he winced, rolling his shoulders.

"Are you in pain?" I asked.

"I just have a knot ... in my shoulder," he said, reaching up to rub his left shoulder with his right hand. He made an odd sort of grunting sound as he round the knot and _pressed_, and _really_ I shouldn't have found the sound as erotic as I did.

"Here, let me," I said, replacing his hands with my own after trying, and failing, to overcome a sudden urge to touch him. He stiffened briefly but then nodded permission to go ahead. I rubbed his shoulders gently and he positively _melted_ under my ministrations. I could practically feel the week's tension rolling off of him. My thumb found the knot and I pressed firmly until Sherlock let out a moan I had only heard once before – when he had come in my mouth exactly seven days ago. My knees felt weak and I was unable to stop my own moan escaping.

"Er... Sherlock, if you like I can ... ah ... give you a proper massage, after your bath. It would certainly help you to, um ... sleep." I suggested, wanting to touch him again more than anything. "What do you think?"

"I think..." Sherlock began, his voice thicker than normal, "that that is a wonderful idea..."

He stood, then, leaving the room and a few moments later I heard the bath running. I decided to make myself useful by changing the musty sheets on Sherlock's bed to fresh ones from my own cupboard, seeing as I couldn't find where he had kept his clean linens. Then, I searched for some kind of oil I could use. The only thing I could find was some dual-purpose massage lube that Harry had got me as joke when I moved in with Sherlock. I thought he might get the wrong idea if he saw it, so I decided not to let him see the label, lest he felt that I was pressuring him to go further than he wanted to. Images of what I _could_ be using the oil for swamped my mind and I was briefly overcome with lust until a voice cut through the haze in my mind.

"John." Sherlock's voice sounded forced, as if hiding nervousness. I put the oil in my pocket and descended the stairs. Sherlock was standing at the door to his bedroom in a towel that was precariously tied on his slender hips. I offered a reassuring smile to my frightened-looking friend.

"It's alright, Sherlock, I won't hurt you. I won't push you beyond your comfort zone. I'm your friend."

"I know, John. I trust you."

**A/N**: ahhh there you go! Sorry it's been ages! I have so much revision to do at the moment biiig exams coming up! But got the sudden urge to write this at 11.30pm (UK time) and I think I am in need of one of John's massages now (though he can save the lube for Sherlock) ! Thank you for being patient readers and if you like check out my other Sherlock story though it's a bit neglected – ideas for more chapters would be welcome! I will try my bestest to update soon!


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